


Arch to the Sky - Snippets 1997-1998

by kalijean, SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [51]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1995-1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2011-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1997-1998: Snapshots in Arch to the Sky during canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Organization

"If you wouldn't mind, sir, could you please put the tea back in its assigned spot?"

Fraser stared.

Turnbull gestured to the neat array of alphabetically ordered tea tins that lined the cupboard, face set in a vague little frown, earnest and solemn. "Given the amount of tea we have here, sir, surely you must see the necessity of keeping it where everyone can easily find it again. Very much like a library, in fact, which I am given to believe you have ample experience with."

Fraser continued to stare. If he didn't know any better, he would venture that Turnbull was... was...

Well. It wasn't unreasonable, of course, to want things put in their place. And Turnbull, of all people, didn't seem the type to cloak irritation behind pedantic over-neatness. Fraser wasn't even sure that Turnbull had it in him to be genuinely irritated.

Then Fraser had to think that he just thought that it was possible to _be_ overly neat, which surprised even him. He rubbed an eyebrow, looking at the tin. He did put it back out of order. Just yesterday, he had been reprimanding Turnbull for failing to refile the visa forms properly...

"Of course." Fraser moved the tin to where it belonged, offering an apologetic half-smile. "Thank you for pointing that out."

Something flashed across Turnbull's eyes, something gone too fast to see, but it made Fraser just a little bit uneasy. And it instantly dissolved to a vapid little smile. "You're welcome, sir."

It was perfectly reasonable to want things put back into their proper places, be it tea or files, but even as he was left standing alone in the kitchen while Turnbull went back to humming and dusting and otherwise flitting about, Fraser couldn't quite shake the feeling that he had just been handed insubordination in the form of organization.


	2. Embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1997: Introspective.

Sometimes Turnbull wondered if he should tell Inspector Thatcher that he truly loved seeing her smile.

He had plenty of anger for her. A little bit of hurt, too; those moments when careless cruelty slipped his armor and struck home. Mostly, he was just weary of her.

Sometimes, though...

Sometimes those walls of hers would come down far enough for Turnbull to get a peer in at the warm woman she could be. It was then that he really saw the color of her eyes; they lit up when she felt joy or warmth or amusement not tainted with derision. Hazel, just on the edge of brown.

She was beautiful. Purely, when she shone like that. There was an almost cold, factual beauty to her when she was closed off; it projected age she didn't have at the same time as it served the purpose of projecting experience she did. Turnbull wasn't a man to find women attractive. He just didn't get them, generally. There was no appeal in the fact of her appearance, though it was aesthetically obvious.

Nor was his an attraction in the usual sense. Did a desire to gravitate toward a worthwhile aspect of someone constitute an attraction? Was his interest in her honest depths an equation to some manner of romantic interest? However wistful his internal phrasing, he knew not. Turnbull didn't know from romance. All he truly understood was that he wanted to blow on the embers of that openness wherever he found it.

It unlocked something in her. A free, open expression and a smile that made Turnbull imagine a young girl before Depot with bright ambitions and crushes and classes with friends and all those terribly human things people were when they were young.

He dearly wished she would show it more.

So, he would wonder now and again, whether he should simply tell her so. It was a flight of fancy. He knew precisely the reaction he would get if he did. Still; there was something pleasant in the faint imagining that it would strike some depth in her, some way to make her feel truly special both regardless and including the facade she presented to people at large. Perhaps, at the very least, it would leave with her the sense that someone did care.

He knew all it would leave was the impression of yet another male wanting the pretty officer to be more decorative, and in an effort to strengthen her own armor, she would lash out for his.

No. He would never tell her.

But that open and unguarded smile graced her features now, and if nothing else, he could offer her an open and warm smile of his own.


	3. Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1997: The private nature of gifts.

By virtue of his administrative role, Turnbull was aware of the birthdays of the people he worked with. He kept private information private, of course; he was nothing if not trustworthy.

That didn't mean he wouldn't use it privately, however.

Openly gifting Inspector Thatcher with anything was a dubious prospect. The Inspector had an understandable wariness when it came to such things, and the one time Turnbull had sent her flowers anonymously had backfired spectacularly, given attentions from other quarters. Still; on her birthday, he would try.

His art group was useful for more than the occupation of his off-time, occasionally, and the chance to work in other artistic mediums when it came could be quite stimulating. One gentleman had experience in jewelry-making; a delicate discipline, the closest to which Turnbull had ever gotten being childhood grassweaving. He had been grateful to expand the area of experience.

The hair slide was very pretty, if he did say so himself.

It was made of delicate silver wire, wound in a conservative curve and spot-welded in more silver to the slide frame.

There was a precise kind of satisfaction to having seen it come together, and another sort to having wrapped it. Thatcher could be unforgiving of jaunts into her office while she was not present, but he left it on her desk as he cleaned. Unsigned. Anonymous.

He wasn't there for her reaction, and neither did he see her wear the gift, but several days later he found a prim thank you note upon his desk and smiled.


	4. Catch & Throw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1997: A scene before "Say Amen".

He'd been struck no less than six times during the film.

Renfield Turnbull had an exceptional sense of hearing; loud though the film was, it could not mask the snickering of the teenagers several seats over every time a kernel of popcorn struck the back of his head.

Neither could it mask the Detective's occasional contradictory enthusiastic or derisive comment on the movie, but that was neither here nor there.

Turnbull wasn't greatly into movies, but he was enjoying this one, and with each popcorn distraction he felt the figurative temperature of his blood rise. None of the others seemed to notice, something unusual for Constable Fraser, but Turnbull charitably blamed it upon the volume of the film.

It was at number seven he acted.

The catch-throw motion was swift, going undetected by two of his three companions, and he didn't have to look back to know he'd struck the instigator squarely between the eyes.

Turnbull pretended not to notice the slightly baffled double-take Constable Fraser gave him.

He was not struck by popcorn again.


	5. One-up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1998: _"Those are fireballs, Turnbull, fire-- shit, shit, shit-- YES!"_

What was that awful _noise_?

Someone appeared to have set up an arcade in his consulate foyer, and Turnbull was not especially pleased with this. He wandered out, duty smile fixed even so, to find Detective 'Vecchio' engrossed in a small gaming system. Volume cranked no doubt to the maximum.

Turnbull blinked and watched the man for a minute or so. He seemed to bounce with whatever game he was playing, eyebrows hiking and his shoulders tensing at whatever beat to which the game was played. At a particularly vigorous application of thumbs, the detective shoved his tongue out and to the side of his mouth, appearing to concentrate deeply.

He stepped over carefully, taking pains to make no noise. The observer effect dictated that on some level, Turnbull's observation must have changed the phenomenon before him, but for reasons beyond him he would hold the illusion for a few moments more.

The detective pressed thumbs in to the machine so rapidly that Turnbull was sure it would break, and then made a noise of triumph that was matched by celebratory, if tinny, notes from the machine. His tension melted from him with a pleased sigh, at which point he noticed his observer.

Ray jumped and without apparent thought, tossed the game deck at Turnbull, who caught it easily.

"Hello, Detective."

"Jesus Jumpin', Turnbull, you can't sneak _up_ on a guy like that."

"My apologies," he offered, admittedly somewhat distracted by the screen. There was a very small, pixellated man, looking as triumphant about something as the detective had seemed.

Silence fell for a beat or two, before Ray became impatient. "--you mind? I'll lose a man if it starts without me."

Turnbull flicked the volume down as he handed it back. "Of course."

Ray looked disgruntled, but promptly hit a button at the center and launched right back into his game. Turnbull settled by his shoulder, choosing not to wonder why he himself had nothing better to do, and watched in bafflement.

"What is it?"

"Geez, don't they have video games in igloos back home?"

"I'm from Toronto, Ray," Turnbull said, not especially containing the sigh in it.

"It's Super Mario."

"A small pixel man who appears to be throwing snooker balls."

"Those are fireballs, Turnbull, fire-- shit, shit, shit-- YES!"

Turnbull's eyes widened for a moment before settling with a blink. The little man seemed to have found purchase upon a floating platform.

"...well done."

"Hey, thanks."

"Is he chasing a... mushroom?"

"Yep. Maybe I can get another man."

"Pardon me, Ray, but... to what end?"

"--huh?" The little man appeared to secure his mushroom, which disappeared on contact. Turnbull had a very strange sense of deja vu. "--oh. Sorry. What?"

"What's the object of the game?"

"Oh." More frantic thumb-motions went on as Ray spoke. "--the biggie kidnapped Princess Daisy so he could marry her, and I gotta save her."

Turnbull paused to consider that as a plot device.

"And this game is intended for children?"

"Hey, there's _nothing_ wrong with a grown guy playing video games."

"--ah, I wasn't commenting upon your age so much as--" Mario lept into the air after what appeared to be a pixel oval, and failed to reach the other side. He fell to his death, and with it, Ray deflated. "--hm. Question whether... kidnapping and forced _marriage_ should be an acceptable plot device for a child's game..."

Ray sighed. "Just lost a life."

"Forgive my criticism of your pastime, Ray, but that hardly seems to improve upon my point."

"It's just a _game_ , Turnbull, nobody cares about unfortunate implications or whatever, I just wanna have a little mindless fun before Fraser comes back and takes me somewhere I can't shoot fireballs at bad guys. Well, okay, so there was that one time, but I never figured out how Fraser got the can of hairspray to do that, so just--" There was more thumb motioning, and at some point during the rant, both Ray and Turnbull gave up.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Turnbull walked away. "Enjoy your game, Ray."

"Yeah."


	6. Played

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1998: It's like this.

Now, see, it's like this: He had the same dream a dozen or more times in Vegas, and those were only the times he actually remembered and counted.

And sometimes the dream was different, but it always ended the same. But on the edge of waking, that bare moment when he was vulnerable, when he was _Ray_ , it hurt too much, like a blade in his chest and a tightness in his gut, so he got good at being Armando enough to at least shove it aside, get it out of the way quick as he could. Nero sure as shit wouldn't know what to do, if he found the Bookman curled around himself bracing his own guts in, so Armando made sure Nero never saw that and yeah, got it under control.

He was so busy not thinking about it that he didn't think about what it could mean.

But see, it was always the same dream, even when it was different: Brown or red or plaid or 3J or Ma's couch or a hospital bed.

Ray twisted in his silken covers, gripping on them white knuckled, woke. Ow. Ow. No. Armando. _Breathe_.

There wasn't any room in Vegas for this kinda thing; for regrets or dreams or losses or things he couldn't think about.

So, he'd get up and get dressed in suits that could put anyone to shame; the finest kinds of suits, tailored so perfectly they coulda been spun by angels, if it wasn't for the fact that this was Hell. So, he'd get up and groom himself in a bathroom so pristine that you could eat off of any surface in it, including the toilet. All gilded in gold and marble. So, he'd get up and after he was done grooming himself, he would sit down to breakfast and drink buttermilk and make nice with whomever was invited to join him; in the mornings, given the perception of family, it was usually Family.

He wouldn't let himself think of the night, the dream.

So, he'd finish breakfast and go about his business; check in at all the casinos that the Family had a stake in. Check in and settle up accounts. Some accounts, though, didn't get settled and sometimes that meant a little warning, and most often that little warning only happened once before bones were broken.

Then came lunch, and lunch he'd spend with informants or people who were worth something, but not enough to invite for dinner. He hated lunch, 'cause sometimes, those people were cops.

After lunch he'd go and make his reports to people even more important than him, and get his marching orders for the evening. Then he'd go and finish making his rounds, checking things over, collecting the payments.

Dinner was for the important people. Dinner was where he was a big fish with bigger fish, and it was usually at someone else's house, or some very fine restaurant. It was sharp grins and sharper eyes, it was soft conversation, old jokes and sometimes old reminiscence about when they were all just package runners, making their Pops proud. Dinner was the finest of dining, the finest wines, the finest women. Armando was a widower; small mercy.

Real small.

Armando was a widower because of _Ray_.

Armando was a grieving father because of _Ray_.

Because someone at the Eff-Bee-Eye had put two and two together and a long time ago noticed a certain resemblance, and then they started watching Armando in earnest. Seemed too good to be true. They spent years gathering intel, years building up to this one operation, and then they had decided to make a move. Armando's car crashed. Wife killed outright. Daughter died in the hospital. Armando lingered longer, might have even made it, but he wasn't supposed to.

The Feds were good, they worked both sides, timed it perfectly, executed it perfectly.

It wasn't until he was lost that Ray realized that he and Armando had a big thing in common: They'd both been played.

Sometimes he picked up the family picture off the nightstand and looked at the beautiful child peering out. She coulda been his. She was his. She was never his. But she sure never should have died.

So, see, it's like this: He had the same dream a dozen or more times in Vegas, and those were only the times he actually counted and remembered.

It went like this: Benny was asleep in a chair, or a bed, or on Ma's couch. Sometimes in brown, sometimes red, sometimes plaid, sometimes half undone, sometimes all buttoned up. And Ray was Ray. And he'd watch for a moment, because he had to go somewhere -- he never knew where, he never knew where he was going -- but he'd watch for a moment before he left.

And then he'd lean in and press a kiss to Benny's forehead, soft and gentle so Benny wouldn't wake up. Sometimes he had to push the pelt out of the way to do it, but it was always a kiss, and always on the forehead, and Ray was always leaving.

The dreams stopped when he got the call that Benny wasn't coming back from the Great White North, but the hurt didn't.


End file.
